


Take It Down

by whatthefrickfrackpaddywack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Dean, Brief mention of Jess - Freeform, Daddy Issues, Existential Crisis, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-11-22 16:25:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11383965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefrickfrackpaddywack/pseuds/whatthefrickfrackpaddywack
Summary: The one time Sam had tried to bring it up, Dean had a panic attack at three in the morning in the middle of Wendy's.





	Take It Down

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't like this one but I put too much work into it to not put it up so here you go have my garbage writing I promise I'll update Decades and Brain asap.

They don't talk about it.

Or, more accurately, Dean doesn't talk about it.

He's numb, still not entirely sure what the fuck happened between them (and shit, he hadn't drank nearly enough, he remembers  _everything,)_ And the one time Sam had tried to bring it up, Dean had a panic attack at three in the morning in the middle of Wendy's.

Cock rock is blasting through the speakers, trying to fill up the spaces that their silence has been creating for the past three hours.

Sam has his jacket shoved up under his head and is curled up in on himself against the door. He'd somehow managed to get dark circles under his eyes in four days.

It's suffocating.

There were moments, small and barley there, over the past few years where Dean had let himself think about it. Typically while very, very drunk and parked outside of Sam's dorm in Palo Alto. Moments when he let himself go, stopped repressing the dark pit in his brain and felt the loss that had blown a hole in his ribcage when Sam decided to leave.

But there was no way in hell that Dean would've ever fucking  _acted_ on it.

His emotional capacity is constantly at its limit, abandonment issues clashing with second-hand maternal instincts, Sammy calling out for "daddy" at four years old and reaching for Dean. It made it all worse, somehow, made it all even more fucked up because this wasn't just his kid brother, this was his  _baby,_ the kid whose scraped up knobby knees he'd bandaged, the kid whose tangled hair he'd brushed, the kid who made him Valentine's day cards in pre-school. This was Sam. It was always going to be more complicated.

So what did he expect was gonna happen afterwards? They were gonna start holding hands and making out in the grocery store and fall in love?

Too late.

The song finishes, and the tape turns off with a  _click._

Sam looks over at him.

Silence never used to feel so forced.

Sam watches Dean's movements, the awkward eject snap that sends tapes flying, the rattle of the next selection, the click of it into the tapedeck, and soon cock rock is playing again while Dean hums along.

"I like it when you sing." Sam says quietly. Apprehensively.

Dean feels his shoulders hunch, tensed up over the steering wheel.

"Stop watching me."  
  
"Why?" Sam looks him over, head to foot, petulant little brother face twisting a knife in Dean's gut. "You watch me all the time."  
  
_Shit._  
  
"I do not."  
  
"Do too."  
  
"Do not."  
  
"Do. Too." Sam leans closer, annoyance heavy in his tone,  _I never learned how to tell him no._ His hand reaches out, touches down on Dean's arm. Dean's fingers clench bone white. It keeps happening, this jerking instinct,  _protect Sammy, keep him safe, keep him dumb,_ making him jump like his skin was on fire every time they even accidentally touched. "It's okay though."

_no it's not._

Slowly, he shifts closer, leaning into his brother’s shoulder.

"Sam..."

He ignored him. (Figures.) Dean kept shooting it down, hadn't stopped driving in what felt like days, would try to press forward and avoid being locked into a hotel room where there was no escaping his younger brother.

But he couldn't exactly out run him in the car.

Sam swallows, runs his right hand up Dean’s thigh, feeling him tense in his jeans.

“Sammy, come on…” Dean whispers, and Sam leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Dean’s cheek and feeling him shudder. “I can't…”

“I know, I’m not asking you to do anything.” Sam replies, voice small, trailing his hand higher up his brother’s thigh. Dean shifts his hips beside him. 

He shrugs him off. "No, Sam."

_please no._

"Dean, please." And there we go. The puppy dog eyes. Those stupid, annoying, baby boy eyes that've been letting him get away with everything for his whole fucking life.

 Dean swallows and pulls over.

 

\-----------------------------

 

Thier first time is horrible.

It's February. Snow is coming down in torrets, making up for lost time all over the country with blizzards and snow days and impromptu snowball fights in Bobby's front yard. Snow means hot chocolate and making up the words to the Christmas carols and Sam bitching in the front seat about the cold. It also means mating season for Arachneas.

Sam had nearly died.

The thing came too close and Dean hadn't been paying attention.

Jesus. It was too close.

Deans squeezes a fistful of sheets and pants. “Stop! Stop pushing. God, I'm not a fucking girl, Sam just - don’t push, just move, don’t go back and forth, just barely move your hips, please, Sam you can’t - ”

“Breathe. Calm down!” Sam says through grit teeth. His arms hold him at a distance above his brother. Any bit of contact that wasn't strictly necessary had been completely shut down by Dean. The fact that they were facing each other was bad enough.

Dean’s free hand punches Sam in the arm. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

_Please don't remember this tomorrow._

He can barley think, drunker than he's been since Dad died.

And now he's thinking about Dad.

"Oh my God," he groans.

Sam moves his hand from Dean’s thigh and runs it up over his chest, touches his cheek. He shifts his weight and accidentally pins Dean’s arm to the bed. 

Dean immediately stiffens and struggles against the weight above him. The muscles pulling around Sam’s dick clench even tighter, and Sam thrusts hard into the sensation.

Dean yelps. (Don't cry don't cry don't) He slams his head against the pillow.

"Oh my God, De, I'm sorry I swear I didn't mean to-" Sam stops when he feels Dean's dick twitch against his stomach. Oh god. “U-um. You okay?”

He nods, eyes squeezed shut, (as if he could've seen Jack shit if they were open; It's pitch black in thier motel room.) “ You’re holding your breath. Just breathe, okay?”

This time Dean obeys and nearly hyperventilates at the sight of his brother’s dick disappeared inside his body.

Sam grabs Dean’s face with his hand, (Jesus, when did he get so  _big,)_  and presses his head back. “Look up, look up. Can you do this?”

"Jesus, are you getting  _bigger!?"_

"No, Dean, it's a retractable dick. I've got more hiding up my pelvis."

"Fuck off."

"...Do you want to stop?"

Dean shakes his head, _hard_ , his eyes shut. “J-just get in with it.”

“Okay,” Sam nods, movements jerky. Maybe from the nerves. More likely from the booze. He waits for Dean’s breathing to finally slow slightly before he leans down and kisses him.

Dean stiffens again, eyes flying open. “No-o,” his voice wavers. “No, I don’t want that.”

“It’ll make it easi-"

Dean trembles and pushes Sam's face up. Away. “No. Don’t.”

Sam's got that kicked puppy look, same look he used to make when they were five and Dean wouldn't let him have cookies for breakfast. The memory makes Dean's stomach turn. "...Okay.” Sam lifts Dean’s thigh up around his hips again, pushing the angle deeper, oh  _god._  "No, no, keep your eyes up, baby,” he says as Dean's gaze dips down again to the place where their bodies meet.

Dean grunts and closes his eyes. His jaw clenches as Sam begins thrusting gently, rocking his hips against Dean’s.

“Okay?”

Dean nods only just.

“You need to tell me if --”

Dean’s eyebrows raise at his brother’s audacity to talk so much during sex. “Just shut up! I’ve got this.” The stabbing in-and-out pressure is overwhelming, and the fact that it doesn't hurt anymore is just making it worse. Each time Sam pulls out, Dean feels so full, like he needs to shit, and each time Sam pushes in...

It feels...

Its...

Sam hadn't hesitated when Dean drunkenly kissed him. He drank too much ( _Limp, lifeless body lying in a crumpled heap by the wall, too young, oh my god, baby boy_ ), and the grief hit him. It was too much.

He was lonely and sad and so fucking drunk, and Sam was there, an arm's length away on the other bed eating ramen noodles.

Dean staggered up and over and kissed him. Just like that. Bent down and planted a kiss on his mouth just as his brother glanced up at him to see what he wanted.

"Dean," Sam whispered, "De," gripping his arms so tight it hurt and muttering how he never thought, never even  _hoped_  Dean would want him. His expression, god, Sam hardly even believed he got to have something for once.

Rude, crude big brother with the cocksucking lips and the eyelashes and the freckles. 

"Shit, you're too tight. I should've prepped you better."

"Dude, shut up."

"When's the last time you did this?"

Dean stays quiet.

"Dean. You've done this before, right?"

Dean smacks him upside the head, which makes Sam slip, and he finds his prostate on accident. Dean releases this high pitched squeak and his hips start moving without his consent, pushing back down, "Oh my God, Sam, do that again."

"L-like this?"

"Yes; yes, fuck,  _Sam-"_

"Wait, slow down a bit-" Sam pants, whole body thrumming with tension. Dean throws one arm over his face. He tries to slow his movements, arched back lowering down onto the bed. But Sam thrusts  back in, harder, and he's fucking _keening,_  unyielding rythm taking it’s toll. One hand snakes around Sam’s naked shoulder and squeezes a little tighter, and its suddenly harder to breathe. His skin itches everywhere, his heart beats in his throat. He swallows a whimper.

Dean is waking up and he needs to stop, he needs to stop, he needs to  _stop_ but he can't. His breath is hitching and his eyes and throat burn and he can't stop them.

Dean's pushing back into his thrusts as much as he's able, a little whimpery sound escaping him as Sam hits that spot again, "Harder, Sammy, fuck."

Sam moves his hand once again from Dean’s thigh and cups his face. He wipes at the sweat on Dean’s brow.

Dean jerks away from the hand. “ Stop it,” he says in a shaky voice. A quiet whimper escapes his throat, and his bottom lip trembles.

“Shh,” Sam tries to sooth against Dean’s ear.

Dean’s throat clenches, and his face contorts into a silent sob.

"Baby-”

“Shut up,” Dean grunts, but he pulls Sam down.

 

\----------------------

 

He wonders if this is his fault.

If somewhere along the way, of bruises and forhead kisses and packed peanut butter sandwiches, he might've let something slip. Maybe he said something in his sleep, those motel nights before he woke up wrapped in Sammy with the sheets sticky and begged dad to let him have his own bed. Maybe he let himself look too long, because Sammy was right, he's always staring, tracking every movement, waiting till he's needed or missed. It's a habit that got dragged out when Sam turned fourteen and stopped kissing him goodnight, stopped talking so much. Dean watched, concern over his kid brother maybe a little too personal.

Sam explains, exhausted, covered in dirt while he washes off the blood from the Impala with a rubber hose.

"Its not your fault, you know." He'd said quietly.

"Obviously. The professor never said shit about invisibility. Next time we come across a pagan god, I'm leaving it to Ellen." He was laying flat on his back, exhausted. Fucking PTA mom's and thier bake sales.

"No, I mean...Standford."

There's a hole in the barn cieling. Water damage is leaking into the edges. It'll be a bitch to fix.

"I was fourteen when I started thinking about you like that. I shut down completely, started reading every book I could find on psychology. 'Unhealthy Attachment based on abandonment issues and an unhealthy home life' was my self diagnosis. I thought...if I went away, got away from you and actually formed, like, real attachments with people who... weren't you. I thought I could fix it. I thought I was a freak."

_I thought I was a pedophile._

"I don't want to know this."

 Sam sighs and turns off the hose.

"I just... I want you to know that it wasn't you. I've, um. Always been this way." He walks over to where Dean is on the ground, glued in place. "And I wouldn't change it."

His kiss feels like a punch to the gut.

 

\------------------------

Sam is happy.

Its a ridiculously, head-over-heels, first crush kind of happy. They've been on the road for years now, the ease if hunting on thier own without Dad is almost hilarious in its rhythm. But it was never really what Sam wanted, and every time Dean saw him looking longingly at the pretty little white people through the diner window, Dean died a little inside.

But Sam is smiling again, fingers tapping a little on the window, laughing out loud a couple times a week, when that had shrunk down to practically an annual event. He's sleeping eight hours a night and putting on a little weight.

He holds Dean's hand in the grocery store.

Sam loves him, gives him everything and more. Dean knows that, cherishes that, can't believe it when Sam smiles that dimpled little smile and it's all for him. It's the least he can do, to give and give and give, right?

It seems to be the only thing he ever does anymore.

Who is he to deprive his brother from this? And still, when Sam spreads his legs and licks and licks and licks until there's that hotwrongdirtydisgusting sensation buzzing through Dean like an electrocuting shock, all he wants to do is bring an end to this, to just kick his leg into that horrible face and get his gun and make Sam swear to never touch him again.

But he doesn't. He never does.

"Hm," he chokes.

"Feels good?"

He can't wait too long and presses a "yeah" between the webbings of his fingers spreading over his face. Holding himself like this is strangely comforting, like a kid covering his ears and shaking his head. Dean is  _this_ close to screaming LALALALAAA just to overpower the wet little sounds, Sam's happy eating noises.

"Knew it'd be like this." The words feel hoticeaching against his skin. "Knew you'd be like this for me. So good, Dean. Fuck.  _Perfect for me_."

His muscles betray, open up, invite Sam in further than anything Dean could have thought possible, and this is only his stupid little  _tongue_ , and it turns Dean fucking inside out somehow with disgust and panic and pleasure and he  _hates_  himself for it, hateshates _hates_  his body and the easiness it takes to manipulate him with it.

He isn't dumb, regardless of what he's been led to believe, _Brawn over Brains._  He knows where this eventually leads to. And he can't pull that off. He just can't. Not right now. Everything else, but not this. "I- I could suck you off," Dean offers, halfway lost to desperate panic.

"Relax," is the response. A slow, long drag of tongue against his insides. He doesn't want to think about it, about how Sam learned to do this, learned to make it feel this way, because it makes his vision go white hot and he feels like killing something. "I'm fine just doin'  _this_ ," Sam informs him, grins and kisses where Dean is wet and open (like a girl), "Just you. Like seeing you blush all over. 'S adorable. You know that?"

"Shut up," Dean chokes. He bites the inside of his cheek.

Sam hides his chuckle.

 

\------------------------------------------

It's exhausting, loving him.

He always has to  _beg._

The affection is smothering, taken too deep and too much and it makes him angry because before it all there was never ever enough love to go around. He's touch starved, knows he is, but he can't bring himself to accept it, doesn't want it all the be real.

Sam snorting chocolate milk up his nose when Dean makes a dumb comment in the gas station.

Sam sticking his feet up in Dean's lap while he's doing research on the computer.

Sam putting his hand in Dean's back pocket and telling the lady at the bar that they'll have two beers, one for him, "One for my boyfriend."

Its barely any different. It'll never be the same.

The car is hot, stuffy, shakes with the wobbling inside. This gets easier every time, addicting and incredible and better than Dean's ever had it in his life. Slow drags and goofy smiles and hitching breath, every noise Sam makes sending Deans vision double.

Kissing him is numbing. Dean loves kissing, always has, can make out for hours is he gets the chance. Kissing Sam feels warm and soft and he smells stupidly good. Kissing him doesn't hurt, because it's the only time when he can turn his brain off and stop thinking about what he's doing, _what is he doing, oh my god-_

"You know, I never would've taken you for the shy type." Sam teases, hands pushing up the back of Dean's shirt. Dean tries not to flinch away, sweat gathering in awkward places, doesn't want to talk, doesn't want to think, doesn't want to focus on the fact that he can feel Sam's dick against him through his jeans oh _my God._

"You're so pretty," Sam whispers. He reaches up, tries to brush Dean's hair out of his eyes. Dean moves away, just wants to kiss him again, wants to make the noise stop.

 "Shut up." He says, because what's he supposed to say to that? He pulls the soft shirt over his head in one long, slow move, shifts and tries not to panicking when Sam latches on to his nipple (notagirlnotagirlimnotafuckinggirl.) His skin is smooth but for the handful of scars that always make girls wet.  _Bad boy_ , they say.  _Clumsy_ , Sam says instead. And Sam is the one who had to bandage up every one of those scars. Sam is the one who shook and cried when Dean stumbled in the door bleeding, who ran past Dad to wrap Dean up in his arms and make him promise not to die. Dean leans down to kiss him again.

No,” Sam says quickly and Dean freezes. pulling back almost immediately. His heart skips a beat when he looks down, feels like he's going to be sick. “No, Dean, I mean yes, but… I gotta tell you something.” He stops moving places his big hands astride Dean's thighs.

Dean stops too.

 Sam looks hesitant. "Dean, I... I know we haven't been doing this for very long, and I _k_ _now_ this is still all so new to you, but I have to tell you... Dean, I lo-"

"No." 

"De, please-"

"S _hut up, Sam, just shut the fuck up."_

He could never say no, always going fucking easy on little Sammy, even after little Sammy wasn't little anymore. He always gave him everything, gave him so much, couldn't stop giving and he didn't know what he was doing even though he'd been working at it all his life, because Dean had had a job to do, to take care of the little ungrateful spoiled shit Dad had always coddled and protected—

"Dean...are you crying?"

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.

"Shut  _up,_ Sam." He growled, tried to scrunch up his face into something mean but Sam just looked at him with pity,  _the only thing they ever look at him with, poor Dean, had to give and give and give till everyone was dead and there was no one left to give it to, even daddy didn't stick around to love you-_

"I love you." Sam says, holds him tight, doesn't even flinch when Dean decks him in the chin, just holds on tighter. "Dean, I love you. I can't even remember a time when I didn't."

Dean does.

2003.

Seeing a girl in Sam's window with pretty yellow hair.

He's a place holder. He know he is. There's no other explanation. Can't be, because this is everything he's ever wanted and he knows it's going to end.

"I love you."

But Jesus, it's worth it.


End file.
